LETTER VI. 89 



lodged by the wind, whirled from tree to tree as 

 we came up. It was a miserable night, with the 

 eternal beans and bacon only to console us for 

 the chances we had missed, while the wind 

 roared amongst the hemlocks, and, when the 

 darkness set in, tore long streamers of fire from 

 the logs, carrying flames and heat away together 

 into the darkness. A whole tree seemed to burn 

 out in no time, and the even chop-chop of the 

 axe seemed likely to last all night. The bitter- 

 ness of that night was worthy of an English 

 May. The wind cut through flannel waistcoat and 

 chamois vest, through four ' four-point blankets ' 

 and other odds and ends as if they had been 

 muslin. The snow and sleet and darkness had it 

 all their own way, and the wind almost blew our 

 fire bodily away ; and yet through it all, there 

 sat Tommy outside the tents, with his socks and 

 moccasins in his hands, warming his bare toes 

 before the fire, not even condescending to put on 

 the ragged old overcoat which he had carried 

 behind his saddle all day. From time to time 

 he gave a little cough, or pretended to button his 

 buttonless canvas shirt round his neck ; and when 

 in pity I offered him a tin pannikin of whisky 

 and hot tea to warm him he seemed quite hurt, 

 and assured me that ' he didn't care to eat after 

 meals.' Whether that meant that I ought to 



